A Black Impala at the Red Pony
by 332249
Summary: John Winchester served his country proudly as a marine in Vietnam. So did Walt Longmire. As a matter of fact, they served in the same company, the same unit. Decades later, and years after John's death, something supernatural is preying on surviving veterans. Sam and Dean make their way to Absaroka County to defend what's left of their father's brothers in arms.
1. Chapter 1

A Black Impala at the Red Pony

A/N: I'm using the TV version of the Longmire characters, but having read the books, I just have to add a few things in. So, if you TV fans wonder why Walt has a pet: read the book! While Henry will have the size and background from the books, I'll stick with the TV version for speech patterns and character. And because I'm writing this for a friend who is a huge Katee Sackhoff fan, Vic is still a blonde.

 _Steve Dickson ran, panting heavily and crashing through the underbrush. IT was after him! As a young man, he might have been fast enough, barely. Even better, as a young man he would have had his unit at his back. Now, he was old, a retiree and alone. Now, he knew he would never move fast enough._

 _A thorn bush grabbed at his left leg, and the sudden shift in weight threw out his bum knee. He crashed heavily to the forest floor with a grunt and a stifled groan of pain. Stifled, because it didn't need Steve's help to make it easier to find him._

 _But IT found him anyway. And when IT found him, it hurt. A lot._

"Dude, check it out. You remember Dad's old war buddy, Steve Dickson?" Dean Winchester asked over breakfast in the bunker.

Sam considered the name. "Maybe… was he the guy that Dad had to carry like three miles after he twisted his knee?"

"That's the one." Dean agreed. He flipped the tablet around so his brother could see the screen and the obituary there. "He died a few days ago."

Sam sighed. "Didn't another member of Echo 2/1 die last week? What his name… Jonesborough?"

"Jonesy? Weird. I mean, I know Dad's generation is aging out and all, but they shouldn't be dropping off like this yet. Maybe we should swing by and check up on Deacon. Arkansas ain't that far away, and the whole prison break thing is old news by now. We'll buy him a few drinks and catch up. It'd be nice to see some old friends without bodies on the slab."

By the time Dean had finished his morning coffee, Sam swore heavily.

"What?!" Dean demanded.

Wordlessly, Sam turned around his laptop. Dean's mouth fell open in shock as he read the opening line of the article: Deacon Kaylor, warden at Green River County Detention Center, was found dead this morning outside his home. It went on to inform its readers that Deacon's body was too damaged by scavengers to determine a cause of death and there is no official comment at this time.

"Damaged by scavengers," Dean repeated, dully. "At least they didn't go with the wild dog theory."

Sam looked to his brother, worried. Dean always bonded with people faster and more firmly than Sam did, even though he was forever telling his younger brother not to get too attached. And for some reason Sam had never fully understood, his brother considered bar brawls and fist fights appropriate venues to making friends. Judging from the beating he took from Deacon while undercover county lock-up, the two men were firm friends. Loosing him no doubt hurt.

"It's a nine hour drive to Little Rock." Sam reminded, "We better get moving. I'm sure Sandy could use a friend or two right now."

"Wait, what are the odds that three men from the same unit all die within days of each other? Naturally?"

Sam paused to consider. Most of the soldiers from the Vietnamese police action _were_ aging out, it wouldn't be much longer before veterans did die that close together. But Sam had discovered over the years that his brother always had an amazing instinct when it came to what was normal and what was not. "Maybe I should pull some police reports for Steve and Jonesy."

Dean nodded. "I'll call Sandy, see what she has to say. She believed Dad and Deacon about the supernatural so she'll know why I'm asking the weird questions."

.o0o.

"So, how is Sandy doing?" Sam asked as Dean slumped at the table, beers in hand for both of them.

"Holding it together. Barely." Dean slugged back his beer. "Poor lady. She said she'd scan us a copy of the autopsy, but the short version is something ate him soft tissue and major muscle groups first. So, not a Wolf."

Sam sipped as his beer. "Same thing with Jonesy and Steve. Coroners both ruled it a wild animal mauling with stereotypical predator eating habits. But neither coroner wanted to go on record with what kind of predator; bite marks don't match canine or large breed feline known species."

"So our kind of thing."

"Our kind of thing; that ate its first vic in Maine, three days later its second vic in Kentucky, and four days after that its third in Arkansas."

Dean traced a finger across the map. "Its working its way west. Going after Vietnam vets? Did you run a search for any other veterans dying of animal attacks?"

"I did," Sam sounded almost insulted that his brother had to ask. "Nothing."

"So, only members of Echo Company 2/1. At least that limits our victim pool. Maybe we can get ahead of this thing. I'll pry a complete list of surviving soldiers out of the VA if you'll get started on what kind of critter this is." Dean offered. Both of them knew Dean was far more suited to dealing with military men. While Sam was far happier with the research.

Sandy would forgive them for missing one funeral in order to prevent another.


	2. Chapter 2

Durant, Absaroka County

"Good Chuck, motels are expensive around here." Dean griped as they walked down the block to food and company.

Sam couldn't argue. "Its because of that new casino. Pretty soon everything will be priced like its Vegas."

Dean scoffed. "For one casino. Please, what a waste."

The brothers stepped out of the bright Wyoming summer and into the cool interior of the local watering hole.

"It is another beautiful day at the Red Pony and continual soiree. What can I get for you gentlemen?" The bartender greeted them. The big Cheyenne could look Sam and Dean in the eye, and with his severe features should have been intimidating, but the formidable physique was softened by the gentle smile and welcoming expression.

"Two beers on tap. You got nachos with everything?" Dean asked.

"We do, indeed." The bartender affirmed. "Please, have a seat."

Dean elbowed his brother and nodded at the wall. Amid the clutter of flyers and bar patron snapshots you could still see a few old photos of young men in military uniforms. They took the table nearest to the clutter for a better look. Their bartender was the easiest to pick out, for he was one of two central figures in most of the Vietnam era photos. The other was a white man, barely twenty, with awkward height that he hadn't grown into yet and something of a baby face about him. He filled his marine corps uniform well, but one could see that he still had some filling out to do.

Sam reached out an arm and lay a finger on a full unit lineup. Specifically, a certain black haired white man off to the side: John Winchester. The Winchester family didn't have many family photos, most of them either burned in the fire or got left behind when the family fled town after it. Even after saving the family that now lives in their old home and receiving the box of family mementos from the attic, there weren't that many pictures of their parents. Mostly the box held baby pictures of Dean. So it was unusual to find a snapshot of their father that they hadn't seen before.

When the bartender brought them their beers, he could not help but notice where their attention lay. "That seems like a lifetime ago."

"So that is you." Sam accepted the longnecks. "I don't suppose you have a few minutes to talk about-"

The man cut him off. "Like many veterans of that war, I do not often discuss what happened then."

Dean nodded. "Fair enough. But can we borrow that one to have a copy made," he pointed to the line-up. "The guy, third from the right…"

"John Winchester." The bartender supplied.

"That's our dad."

He blinked. That was all the surprise that showed on his face. "You did not wander in here by accident. Nor are you here for the gambling."

"Nope," Dean agreed. "We were hoping to catch a Walt Longmire from Dad's old unit. You know him?"

.o0o.

"Yes, Ruby, would you please patch me through to Walt's radio." Henry Standing Bear asked politely with an internal sigh.

After a few minutes, a staticky voice crackled in the receiver. "Yeah, Henry?"

"Walt, if Cady and I bought you a cellular phone and paid the bill, would you keep it with you and remember to keep it charged?"

"Probably not."

This time the sigh was audible. "It would make it easier and faster to call you and tell you that there are two strange men in the bar asking questions about Echo Company 2/1. Perhaps then you would be able to arrive here before they have finished their beers."

Momentary silence met Henry's admonishment. "You're thinking these guys have something to do with Steve, Jonesy, Deke, and Maxwell."

"Let us just say that I would be happier if some sort of law enforcement were to answer their war time questions. Perhaps one with a deputy to back him up. Or two." Henry knew he didn't have to say anything else out loud, Walt would hear the subtext. These men were big enough, Henry didn't want a confrontation alone, and something about them concerned the old Indian beyond the suspicious timing of their arrival. Something about the way they moved and held themselves.

Static again as Walt asked, "What can you tell me?"

"They claim to be John Winchester's sons."

"Johnny's boys?" Static, particularly loud static, making Henry pull the phone back an inch. "Didn't he…"

"Indeed." Henry agreed, knowing exactly what his old friend was thinking.

"I am on my way. Buy those two another round; keep 'em there."


	3. Chapter 3

The bartender, who had introduced himself as Henry Standing Bear, had a bar to run. Sam and Dean understood that. They'd scribbled down a phone number for if or when he found time to reminisce, but were content to let him go about his life. This thing, whatever it was, wouldn't be after him. Besides, he said he had pictures not on the wall and he'd call them when he had a chance to pull the box out of storage.

Left on their own, the brothers did what they usually did.

Sam had his laptop open, trying to pry more details of the three deaths out of the police department mainframes. There wasn't much more to say really: animal attack, tragic, case closed. There weren't any notations of continuing investigations by the police. Although animal control was hard at it, trying to identify the local predator with a history of human attack. A Kentucky professor was blogging about his own investigation into what might be a new species; but he had nothing concrete. A predation without identifiable tooth marks didn't mean new species to most agencies, it meant contaminated scenes or excessive tearing.

Dean had files open and printouts strategically sprawled across the table: close ups of autopsy photos and coroners' notes, photos of the sites where bodies were found some with some without the bodies present, photos of physical evidence found on or around the site and their corresponding manifests. His spiral notebook was dotted with commonalities between the sites and nacho cheese.

Sam carefully did _not_ notice the nacho cheese. It wasn't on his laptop or his bedspread, so it wasn't his problem.

He did notice when the door opened and three people in uniform eased inside: an older man, a younger heavy-set man, and a woman. The two younger deputies broke off to circle around the bar as the older man walked directly to their table. The brothers were surrounded, even if they weren't exactly worried about that fact yet.

The oldest man in the most relaxed version of a uniform the brothers had ever seen came to a stop by their table and loomed. Age had not shrunk much of his six foot plus of height. He stood there, silently, considering the two seated men.

Sam and Dean recognized an interrogation technique when it was being used on them. Plenty of cops let heavy, uncomfortable silence push their suspects into talking.

Sam had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes and let his brother take the lead. No one could ease details out of a shaky witness better than Sam. But Dean had the personality to put military types at their ease and on their side.

Dean merely grinned at the tactic. "That'd make you Walt Longmire." He glanced at Henry, standing behind his bar with his hands suspiciously out of sight and alert. "Friends with the local bartender. Smart."

"Sitting in public with photographs of three dead men who were friends of mine. Not smart." Walt Longmire returned, face carved out of granite. "In fact, I'm pretty sure those are confidential police reports. And I know you two are not detectives from all three departments."

"We're private detectives," Sam hurried to explain, "And we called in some favors for these."

Dean was watching Walt's face. It didn't give away much. But then, neither did John Winchester's while he was alive.

"You saw the pattern, too."

Walt didn't respond except for a twitch in the jaw and the eye.

"Hey, it wasn't us." Dean answered as though the twitches were words. "Deke and Dad kept up with each other after the war; he was a friend of ours. Call Sandy, she knows us."

Walt tilted his chin.

"Like my brother said, we're private investigators. We don't think these animal attacks were random so we're looking into it."

Walt's lips tightened.

"Yeah, we think you're next." Dean agreed.

"Wait," the woman interjected. "Is that why Walt's been so moody lately?"

"Sheriff, you knew someone was out to kill you?!" the heavy-set deputy gaped.

"Wasn't sure, Ferg." Walt grunted. "So I asked Henry to keep an eye out."

"And kept Dog close." Henry added, ambling around the bar to join the stand-off. "To counter whatever animal is being used." He eyed the brothers. "If you have been investigating, perhaps you have some insights as to what kind of creature we should be looking for."


	4. Chapter 4

Vic and Ferg eyed the two men in their holding cell over the paperwork in front of them. The brothers had agreed to "hang out" in the locked cage while Walt made some phone calls, checking their story. They weren't under arrest. Yet. In the meantime, Walt had set the two deputies on the police files "borrowed" from their guests. The paper ones, anyway. Sam still had his laptop.

"Except for the nacho cheese, this looks like a pretty solid analysis." Vic had to admit. With a curled lip, she flicked a piece of dried ground beef off of Dean's notebook. "Are you always this disgusting? Or are we special?" She demanded of the holding cell from her desk.

"He's always that disgusting with food." Sam answered, not looking up from his computer. "You should see our fridge."

" _He_ is sitting right here." Dean reminded them, not looking up from his phone. "And Sammy, if you don't like the fridge, _you_ clean it out. I already clean the guns, the car, the dishes and do the laundry."

"Laundry, yeah." Sam snorted. "Dude, you ironed my shirts with beer."

"Wow, you really are brothers." Vic laughed, remembering the discussions that so often erupted within her own family.

"Hey, Vic, I got something." Ferg called, holding a magnifying glass over one of the site photos. "I'm looking at the site report, and nobody has mentioned the hoof prints."

"Hoof prints?" Three voices asked in tandem.

"Yeah. Here." Ferg brightened, excited by his discovery and offered his co-worker the magnifying glass.

Vic sneered at the magnifying glass. "I'll take your word for it."

Ferg deflated a bit until Dean called, "I wanna see. I've been staring at those for hours."

Eagerly, Ferg brought them over to the holding cell and pointed out his find.

Dean squinted and tilted the magnifier. "Sonnuva bitch. Staring right at me. Ferg, right? Good eye, Ferg. Any of the other sites have the same thing?"

"Hoof prints." Vic repeated. "What kind?"

"Small breed horse," Ferg declared. "Or maybe a young medium-size horse breed. Definitely a horse. And yes, there's hoof prints in these other sites, too."

"Walt's would-be killer has been moving across country with his horse and his attack dog. And nobody noticed the other guys getting run down by a psycho on his trusty steed?" Vic couldn't believe it and her voice held more than a little distain for Ferg's scenario.

"No, not mounted." Ferg disagreed. "These prints aren't deep enough for the horse to be carrying extra weight."

"So, our perp is walking next to his horse and his attack dog and only the horse is leaving prints. Yeah, that…makes no fucking sense, Ferg." Vic scoffed.

"Hey!" Dean snapped. "He's calling it like he sees it. Not his fault it sounds crazy. So back off."

"Excuse me?" Vic demanded, insulted. "What gives you the right-?"

But Dean cut her off before she got going on her tirade. "Ferg, man, you obviously have a good eye for tracking. Double check me on this. Those hoof prints; I'm seeing a two-legged pattern of movement. Tell me I'm wrong."

Surprised, Sam stared more intently at the photo in still in his brother's hand. The prints in the rocky Arkansas ground were hard to make out. It would be easy enough to miss something. No wonder he wanted an outsider's opinion.

Ferg stared at his own photos, studying what he saw. The Tennessee ground was hard-packed dirt, and it would be easy to miss a few prints in the pattern and write it off as bad conditions. But the soft, wet ground of Maine showed the same pattern: two feet. "I see it, too." He admitted slowly. "But how's that possible?"

"Our assassin is walking around in boots with horse shoes nailed to the bottom?" Vic blinked in surprise at her own conclusion. Or rather, the idiotic sound of it. But it's the only thing that made sense, right?

"No." Ferg disagreed, with a shake of his head.

"Oh, good, because that would be crazy." Vic sighed, partially in relief.

"There's no horseshoes." Ferg elaborated. "If this guy is walking around on anything, it's on the horse's actual hooves." He told the room, grimly, looking a little green at the gills.

"Okay, that's even crazier." Vic paled a little, unnerved. "This guy is certifiable."

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"Horse monster? Seriously?" Dean whispered. "Please, Chuck, tell me this isn't an evil man-icorn. What's the opposite of Mr. Sparkles? Mr. Matte Black?"

"Are you going to use 'Chuck' instead of 'god' from now on? All the time?"

"Pretty much. Yeah." Dean admitted. At Sam's bitchface, he asked, "What? He prefers to be called Chuck."

"I'll get online. You check Dad and Bobby's journals for horse monsters. Cross reference anything you find with Vietnam. This thing has got to be following veterans for a reason, right?"


	5. Chapter 5

Walt hung up the phone.

Sandy Kaylor was more than a little distraught when they talked, after everything that had happened to her husband. He could hear her tears over the phone, which brought back all kinds of memories of when it was his spouse being laid to rest and his tears being shed. No words would make it easier for her to bear, so offered none beyond his sincerest condolences. He left her with the offer of a sympathetic and understanding ear if she needed one, and he meant it. But honestly assumed she had women friends nearby who she would go to first; warm bodies who could offer the hug and physical contact.

Upset and distraught, she still rallied to confirm what he needed to know about Johnny's boys: they were independent investigators who had gone undercover in Deacon's prison at his request to help him find a murderer. And stopped the murderer from adding Deacon himself to the list.

Walt looked to his oldest friend who had followed him in to hear the verdict. Henry Standing Bear believed Walt was in danger and intended to keep an eye on the man. Currently he was doing that by giving Dog enough attention that he would not be distracted by the need for a belly rub when danger came.

"Sandy says they're good people. Wouldn't charge Deke for the undercover work they did for him." Walt reported. "Saved his life."

"And now they are here," said Henry, while applying scratching Dog's ears. "Offering to watch your back. That does sound like what I would expect from men Johnny had raised."

"Hmm." Walt grunted and hauled himself out of his chair. "Johnny Winchester lost his grip more than a little when he lost his wife. You remember the drunken phone calls and all that monster talk right after."

"I do," Henry agreed. "I also remember a very stubborn good man. And Walt," Henry made sure he had his friends eye, ''he was not the only one to miss a step after becoming a widower. Perhaps he found his way again."

Wordlessly, Walt ambled by, Dog and Henry following. "Sandy verified your story," he told the room.

"How's she doing?" Dean asked.

"She's doing." Walt answered, grimly.

Sam nodded his understanding with a look in his eye; one Walt recognized from the mirror: a man who had lost the love of his life and hated seeing that grief on anyone else. It hit too close to home. The subject was dropped, to both of their relief.

"What do we have?" Walt asked his deputies.

"Assuming these three deaths are all murder and all done by the same killer, we have a complete whack-job who likes to wear dismembered horse parts for shoes." Vic announced with a forced smile. "And from the forensic evidence, I'd say that all three were done by the same kind of attack animal, at least."

Ferg went on to explain the presence of hoof prints, their unusual patterns, and how Vic wasn't kidding about the whack-job comment.

Walt then turned on the Winchesters and demanded, "How long have you been tracking this guy?"

"Few days," Dean reported. "Once we saw the pattern we hightailed it here to get ahead of this thing."

"Saving the next target had to be the priority," Sam added.

"As it should be." Henry approved. "Now all you have to do is convince the target to allow himself to be protected. That will prove to be the far more difficult feat."

Five people turned to give Walt Longmire a Look. Henry's was reminiscent of a schoolteacher or parent, fondly exasperated. Vic's was determinedly expectant, almost challenging. Ferg's was big-eyed concern and pleading. The Winchester's both were ironic and amused. Walt recognized that neither of them were particularly well-suited to being baby-sat, either.

Walt opened his mouth to answer the Looks.

"I will sic Cady on you." Henry threatened before he got a sound out.

Walt's mouth snapped shut with a dirty Look of his own. One that bounced harmlessly off of the old Indian. Too much prior exposure. "Fine. Until we get this settled, I will keep Dog with me and at least one other person from this room. Fair enough?"

"Does anybody have an extra cell phone with a extra long-lasting battery? So that Walt can call if something does happen?" Henry asked the room.

"Why would anybody have an extra cell phone, Standing Bear?" Vic snorted.

"Yeah, how could anybody talk on more than one phone at a time?" Ferg agreed.

Walt smirked victoriously.

Dean reached inside his jacket and offered up a small flip phone. "We always carry a burner. And cheap, old model phones have longer batteries."

Walt sighed in defeat.


	6. Chapter 6

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be a quiet family dinner: Cady and her father, just the two of them. Vic was going to make herself scare for the evening to let the Longmires relax together and be a family.

She could accept Henry at her dinner table; her god-father was family, too. She could deal with her roommate joining the party; Vic was growing on her and they had ceased to be uncomfortable around each other. She could even put up with one stranger playing bodyguard and patrolling her house. But she could not _stand_ the thought of her father walking around with a target on his back. She _hated_ that there wasn't a damned thing she could do to help. And she absolutely HATED that when the target was on her father's back, he spent more time worrying about how safe she would be sitting next to him than he did worrying about himself.

Hence the extra fire-power at dinner. Not for him, but for his peace of mind. Cady supposed she ought to be grateful he didn't want to cancel on her, but what an awkward evening!

Under the guise of going to the bathroom, Cady slipped outside for a breath of fresh air; brisk Wyoming weather always cleared her head and helped calm her down. Eyes closed and inhaling deeply, she didn't notice him right away.

Someone quietly cleared their throat; a noise designed to let her know she was not alone without startling her.

She was startled anyway. And nearly toppled off of her own back porch. She would have, if the handsome stranger hadn't caught her before she fell.

"Whoa! Sorry!" He blurted even as she grabbed onto his jacket to right herself.

"You scared me." She told him, rather unnecessarily.

"Yeah, when 'lurking menacingly in the dark' is part of your job description, you end up scaring people. But somehow, I never scare the right people."

Cady laughed. "Sam, right?" He nodded. "Sam, were you planning on letting me go anytime soon?"

Sam looked down and realized he still had his arms wrapped around her when she wasn't in danger of falling anymore. "Oh, God! Sorry!" He jumped back to give her some personal space, consternation written all over his face. Unfortunately, he forgot just how close to the edge of the porch they were. He landed on his back with a thud in the grass and dirt of her yard. After a beat, his voice came floating up from the ground and the darkness. "Can we kind of…pretend…that part didn't happen?"

Cady laughed again, louder, and threw her hands up over her mouth to cover the sound. He didn't seem like the type to get upset for being laughed at, but a girl never really knew how fragile a man's ego was. Once she mastered her voice, she answered. "Wrong Longmire. Cops are the ones who can turn a blind eye. Lawyers are the ones who convince witnesses what they saw was wrong."

This time Sam laughed as he stood up next to the porch. Their heads were almost level with each other that way. "I think I remember that class. Ethical Applications to Legal Practice, right?"

Cady blinked. That actually _was_ the class her professor had cracked that joke for. "Are you a lawyer?"

Sam brushed at the dirt and grass bits clinging to his jeans. "I studied Pre-Law at Stanford," he admitted. "Never graduated, though."

 _Why not?_ she wondered, but didn't ask aloud. "Did they teach humor to relieve tension at Stanford Pre-Law? Because I really needed that good laugh tonight, what with everything going on."

"I did take a summer class on questioning and interrogation techniques in Langley, including a chapter on appropriate usages of humor. Honestly, it was my worst subject." Sam confessed. "My brother tells me I lack a sense of comedic timing."

Cady knew her mouth had fallen open. "Langley? And Stanford? And your day job is 'lurking menacingly in the dark'?"

Sam just shrugged, not wanting to get into his life story. "We help people."

"Yeah, I get that," Cady said softly, "That's why I became a lawyer."

The two fell quiet for a moment, mulling over the places life had taken them as they tried to serve their fellow man.

After a moment, Sam asked if he had gotten all the dried grass bits off. Cady had him turn around and brushed a few more pieces off his back.

With his back to the house, and the door open letting light out, something out of place caught Sam's eye. He told Cady to stay on the porch as he flicked his flashlight on and played the beam over the yard, trying to pinpoint what he thought he saw. Crouching down by her tree, he focused the beam. There in the grass, barely half and hour old, he saw hoof prints. Just two of them.


	7. Chapter 7

Who came up with paper, rock, scissors anyway? Dean grumbled to himself. And why did he always have to throw scissors? Now here he was, doing research on horse monsters, instead of lurking around the hot chick. (He knew she was hot from the photos on her dad's desk.)

There was only so much research Dean could do in one sitting before his brain simply stopped absorbing any more facts. He'd been at it for hours, first in the car while it was Sam's shift to drive on the way to Absaroka County, then in the Red Pony while eating, then in the open holding cell while Walt checked up on them, and then at Vic's desk while Sam got to play bodyguard for Walt and his hot daughter. Sure, he was good at sifting through a lot of information and finding the useful bits. (Honestly, sometimes he thought he was _better_ at it than Sam; he stayed on subject while his brother lost his attention to "interesting" but irrelevant crap.) That didn't mean Dean enjoyed researching. And the hunter definitely had his time limits.

Ferg had been in and out of the office, doing whatever it is the deputies do. Keeping the peace in the county, handling the calls and what not. Dean didn't know what cops actually did on a normal day, but hearing Ferg's running commentary during the day was mildly eye-opening. And more than a little entertaining. Seriously, listening to some of the 'citizen's complaints' sounded like great openers for a soap opera. Through it all, the deputy handled himself with patience and professionalism in front of the public and a little bit of grumbling when it was just them.

Dean decided that man needed more than one beer when his shift was over and offered to buy the first round. They both needed the break.

Ferg's idea of winding down included line dancing, and as luck would have it the Red Pony clears its floor for just that activity once a week. Dean brought the longnecks to one of the few tables still set up around the edges of the room.

"Can I ask you a question? And don't laugh?" Dean wanted to know, watching the dancers.

Ferg blinked in surprise. His new drinking buddy didn't look like the type to be worried about what other people thought of him. "Sure..."

"Where do people learn how to dance? Was there a high school class or something that I missed growing up?"

"Uh...no, not high school." Ferg stammered. "I don't know. I learned watching my parents, I guess. They used to go to these kinds of things all the time and brought me with them." He gestured to a handful of ten to twelve year olds clumsily mimicking their relatives. "Why? Where did you learn?"

Dean shrugged, "I didn't."

The deputy had to let that sink in. He knew that not everyone was in to the same kinds of things, but to never have the chance to learn something as fun as dancing? Ferg offered tentatively, "I could teach you a few steps. If you want."

Dean contemplated the dance floor and the people on the fringe. "I got a better idea. C'mon." He pushed back from their table, leaving his mostly empty bottle behind. Ferg followed obediently. Dean lead the way to a pair of pretty women sitting against another wall, watching the dance floor longingly.

"Hey there, ladies," he greeted with a killer grin. "We are having a small problem and I was wondering if we could talk you two into helping us out. See, I'm new to town and this whole country dancing thing isn't my normal scene. My man Ferg, here, loves this kinda stuff; but he's too good of a guy to leave his buddy high and dry in a strange new town. So, he offered to teach me some moves. But I am not secure enough in my masculinity to dance with another dude. I'm just not."

Both women giggled at the admission.

"So. Maybe you lovely ladies could find it in your hearts to give us the honor of your company and your expertise for the evening? Ferg will not disappoint, and I am usually a fast learner."

And that's how Ferg found himself on the dance floor with a beautiful blond woman named Bridget calling out tips and directions to Dean and his brunette dance partner named Andrea. As promised he was a fast learner and a natural athlete. Ferg offered to switch off dance partners, assuming Bridget would want a turn with the attractive man. To his surprise she stayed with him, insisting she preferred a dance partner that was as good or better than herself. After all, how else could she get better?

As was the female tradition, the girls vanished into the bathroom together leaving the boys alone to nurse their beers.

"Wow. I guess a guy like you can pick up anyone." Ferg commented.

Dean snorted. "I'll tell you a secret. Nobody can pick up anybody that doesn't want to be. I play the odds, and I get slapped more often than I score."

"But...What if its a girl you really want to win over? A specific girl?"

"Like a certain sheriff's hot daughter?" Dean teased.

Before Ferg could find a good come back, Dean's phone rang.

"Yeah, Sammy?" Dean answered. "What? We're on our way." He ended the call and put the phone away. "Sam found fresh hoof prints around Cady's place. Let's go as soon as we say good-bye to the girls."

"Shouldn't we go now?" Ferg demanded, already reaching for his jacket.

"Nah, no one's dying. We got time to get phone numbers."


	8. Chapter 8

"Jesus H. Christ! You mean to tell me this motherfucking psycho serial killing asshole has been stalking our home all fucking night?!" Victoria Morretti bellowed.

Walt sighed. He had nothing but admiration and respect for his deputy (Well, maybe a little something more; but that wasn't for his _deputy..._ ) but sometimes the language that came out of her mouth made him wince. "Looks like," he drawled from his crouching position near the hoofprints. Dog stood next to him, sniffing at the site and growling softly.

"Dammit, Walt! Thaw some of that ice in your veins, crack some of the fucking leather that is your face and show a little concern, here!" Vic raged. "You are allowed to be pissed off and fucking show it when a serial killing psychopath is stalking you and your goddamn family!"

Cady inhaled sharply, still a little shocky from the revelations today.

"C'mere, Punk." Walt drew his daughter into a much needed hug. "He's not after you. He didn't touch any of the others' families."

"God, Dad!" Cady jerked free of his arm so she could round on her father. "Do you honestly think that makes this any better? Like it won't kill me to loose you, too?"

Walt found he had no good answer for that.

Before his friend could try to pull together some semblance of an inadequate answer, Henry spotted two newly familiar figures materializing from out of the dark. Credit where it was due, he hadn't heard them approach. Without they flashlights they were carrying, he doubted he would be able to follow them in the night. "Anything?" he asked of the Winchesters.

Sam shook his head. "I can't find any other tracks coming to or leaving the yard"

But Dean wasn't looking down at the grass. Purgatory had taught him a lot about monsters in the woods; about what to listen for and where the best attacks came from. When the grass and dirt couldn't tell him what he wanted to know, he began to think outside the box. Light from the flashlight played out in front of him, traveling up the trunk of the old tree and out across one of its thicker branches. The beam stopped, highlighting a section of bark. "Does anybody else see what I see?"

There, on that branch, the bark was all scuffed up and torn.

"It seems our serial killing stalker is fond of heights," Henry observed.

"But...there are no signs that he climbed up." Ferg ran his hands along the trunk of the tree feeling for aberrations. "If his horse-hoof shoes left a mark on the branch, then they should have left a mark on the trunk, right? Even someone climbing a cottonwood in sneakers should leave a mark."

"Or it jumped," Dean told his brother with a significant look.

"Excuse us for a minute." Sam told the group and lead his brother out of their earshot. "You got something?"

"Maybe," Dean kept his voice low. "I've been going through the lore, and I think this narrows down our fugly options. There was only one with the legs to jump that high from flatfooted. Vietnamese...Tiki Bong, maybe." He rummaged around in his jacket and started flipping through different print outs.

Sam blinked and gave his brother the wow-are-we-actually-be-related look. "Tiki. Bong. How does that work? Is it a bong made out of tiki wood, or are you supposed to smoke tiki bark in the bong?"

"Don't ask me, you're the one that got experimental, college-boy." Dean flattened one of the papers and handed it to his brother.

"Tikbalang," Sam read.

"Dude, its Vietnamese. Like I could pronounce anything in Vietnamese. Anyway, think horse with fangs and grasshopper legs. Likes to lure people out and eat them."

"Says here its the vengeful spirit of an unborn baby."

"Uhhh...Not exactly. Baby vengeance made horse monster flesh. Not sure salt and burn is gonna cover this one. Some lore says its a shapeshifter, other sources say it can go invisible. Its hard to get anything solid in English."

"Of course not," Sam grumbled.

"I didn't go into it deeper until I knew that's what we were looking for. I was kinda hoping it would be the Onocentaur or the Ipotane. A regular old bullet would do the job for them. A Tiki Bong is gonna be a bitch to figure out how to gank. Times like now, I really miss Bobby. I bet there's a book in his library with all the answers. In Vietnamese, naturally."

Sam huffed a laugh. "Yeah, there probably is."

"How much you wanna bet the bite mark's match the shape of a horse's mouth?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded. "No one else noticed the hoofprints. And even if they did, they wouldn't try to match up a horse's mouth to the marks because horses don't eat people."

"Right. The only thing I can't figure is why Dad's old unit? Why Deacon?" Dean confided. "Vengeful spirit of a soldier who died in the fighting, I would get. But this?"

"Your father did not tell you much of his time as a soldier, did he?" Henry Standing Bear's voice asked from the darkness. He might not be able to follow them if they didn't use lights and didn't wish to be found, but sneaking up on the two while they chattered away with flashlights pointed in front of them? Yes, he could do that easily.

Both brothers startled at his appearance.

"Don't do that!" Dean scolded.

Henry twitched a suppressed smile. "You sound so very much like your father, Dean. I would imagine that the two of you are as good of men to have at one's back during a monster hunt as your father was to have at one's back during an active engagement in the war."

"Wait, what?" Sam blurted.


	9. Chapter 9

Henry Standing Bear considered himself a spiritual man. He made use of the sweat lodge regularly, and sometimes irregularly as needed. He believed in spirits great and small, and that there was more to the world than mere humanity. But like many who held beliefs in a world focused on science and modernity, he kept his beliefs personal and quiet. His spirituality was between himself and Maheo, the Creator. Although he would occasionally discuss his beliefs with Walt, and more rarely with Cady.

What's more, during his time in Vietnam he saw... things. The former marine special operations commando saw enough in the black of night, in the dark of the jungles, to keep him open-minded.

That being said, decades ago when John Winchester drove to Durant with a toddler and a pre-schooler in the backseat and started expounding on his new found belief in the monsters that killed his wife, Henry was hesitant to encourage the idea. Yes, he firmly believed in spirits and their opposites, monsters. No, a man wracked by grief for his late wife did not need cause to fall further from mainstream society and potentially into madness. More often, the truth actually was a case of faulty wiring and bad luck versus monsters in the shadows. Most often, the survivors needed a safe place to grieve so they could forge ahead. That's what sweat lodges were for.

Henry did not _disbelieve_ Johnny's story. He merely wanted to offer a different opinion and maybe a balancing perspective.

John Winchester didn't want alternative theories; he knew what he saw. He didn't want to try a sweat lodge to purify his way of thinking and help him cope. He wanted solid contacts for the most reliable versions of Native American lore. Preferably from someone who believed him, but he accepted a list a names and a good word from the only Native American he knew.

"He also accepted free baby-sitting while he met with various professors from the reservation." Henry finished.

Dean squinted at him, digging through hazy old memories as the Indian talked. "Sammy peed on you," he blurted. "And you started cussing, I could tell it was cussing, but it wasn't English and you wouldn't translate."

A broad grin broke over Henry's face. "Yes, he did. And no, I will not. I later complained to Martha Longmire that her daughter never became a fountain of urine when I changed her diapers. She laughed at me."

By then, Sam was turning red from embarrassment and buried his nose in the Red Pony's beer mug so he didn't have to look at either man he was sitting with. Sam knew men like Bobby and Pastor Jim had changed his diapers as a baby; but it was one of the few subjects his brother didn't tease him about. He assumed that Dean didn't want to start the fight over what their dad should have been doing instead of leaving it to others. If Sam asked (and pressed Dean for an answer) he would have found out that Sam's diapers reminded his brother of their mom and how Dean used to help by throwing away the dirty diapers for her.

"So, you believe us that what's after Walt isn't human?" Dean asked.

"I am open to the possibility," Henry told them. "You gentlemen missed the first victim. Maxwell. Also from Walt's unit, but he married a local girl and chose to stay with her family after the fighting ended. He died several weeks ago in the same manner. His wife, Oanh, was quite upset that local officials seemed... superstitious over his demise."

"Will Walt be open to the possibility?" Sam wanted to know.

Henry leaned back in his chair to consider. "Walt...I do not know. He has expressed some belief in Cheyenne traditions and some belief in Christian tradition. But it will be a somewhat large leap for him to accept that the spirit of an unborn child has returned from the Vietnamese afterlife to avenge its dead mother. Even I have a hard time believing it. This will be my first monster. I do know that he did not give your father's theories any credence."

Dean shrugged. "Fair enough."

"What did you mean? When you said our Dad didn't tell us much about his time as a soldier?" Sam asked.

Henry sighed deeply. "The 'police action' in Vietnam was...complicated. Traditional warfare broke down. The enemy was not only the men in uniforms. Far too often we found ourselves fired upon by men and women in civilian clothes, farmers in their fields pulling rifles from ox-drawn carts. American soldiers began to distrust any native, and treated them as combatants."

Sam and Dean nodded in understanding.

"I have not asked, I do not know; but it would not surprise me if the situation deteriorated until a pregnant woman felt threatened by the approach of a marine corps unit and open fired. And the marines would return fire. Even men as good as Johnny Winchester and Walt Longmire."

All three men fell silent to mull things over. The younger two tried to wrap their brains around everything the older had told them.

Henry broke the silence. "So. What is the next step?"

"Can you get us a copy of the police and autopsy report for Maxwell?" Sam asked. "And maybe find someone who can translate the Vietnamese?"

"I will try," Henry agreed. "What will the two of you be doing?"

"I'm gonna pull the next shift of guard duty while Sammy puts in his time at research figuring out how to gank the thing."

"Your profession seems to involve a lot of research and paperwork," Henry noted.

"Yep. 70% research, 10% interviewing witnesses, 10% playing bodyguard, and 3% ganking the monster of the week." Dean explained.

"And the remaining 7%?"

"Getting our asses kicked by the monster of the week. Y'know, until we've done enough research to know _how_ to gank the thing."


	10. Chapter 10

The next day Walt Longmire stayed in the office with his dispatcher while his deputies came and went doing their jobs. The brothers Winchester had installed themselves in the unlocked holding cell going through the lore. Periodically, the officers threw an odd look in their direction, clearly not understanding why one of them was reading through old, dusty books to catch a serial killer. But no one said anything.

Meanwhile, Dean couldn't help but notice that Deputy Moretti did not handle the public relations part of the job quite as well as Ferg had the day before; she had a lot less patience for stupid people. And the county was apparently full of stupid people who all wanted to complain about their neighbor or the casino to the sheriff's office. That right there is why Dean would never make a good cop. Like Vic, he had a low tolerance for morons. Thankfully, both Ferg and Walt dealt with those people well, polite and professional.

Around lunch time Cady Longmire wandered in, ostensibly to see how her father was holding up. After brief reassurances Walt disappeared back into his office to finish the project he had been at all morning. The elder Longmire must have been preoccupied, because he didn't notice the flickering looks that his daughter cast at Sam.

The elder Winchester, however, was entirely aware and decided to help his brother out. "Hey, Sammy, I'm getting hungry. Would you go scrounge us up some lunch?" Dean asked, reaching for his wallet and handing cash over.

Sam blinked in surprise even as his hand automatically reached out to accept the bills. It was weird. Dean didn't voluntarily part with his hard-earned money unless there was an angle.

"Maybe Ms. Longmire can point you to a good place on her way out," Dean finished with a smile in Cady's direction.

Sam glanced between the bills in his hand, his brother, and the beautiful woman. He could feel the red creeping across his cheekbones. That's one reason Dean would give up cash: to help Sam pick up a girl. "I'm sure I can find something on my own..."

"It's alright," Cady interrupted. "There's a diner not too far from here. I'll be walking right past it on my way back to work."

As Sam exited the cell, Dean whispered, "Dude, her house isn't that far away either. Betcha could get a little afternoon quickie action if you hustled."

Sam shot him a dirty look but otherwise ignored him. Once he and Cady hit the sidewalk, Sam offered, "Sorry about my brother. He can be a little...direct."

"No, its fine," Cady assured him. "I was actually hoping to get you out from underneath Dad for a little bit."

"You were?" Sam had suddenly wondered if she actually _did_ have something X rated in mind. Why else would she want to get away from her dad first?

"Yeah. Uh..." Cady hesitated. "I get the feeling that you and your brother won't be staying around very long after you catch the killer."

Sam nodded cautiously. It still sounded like a set up to a proposition. "That's the job. Get it done, get gone." Crap, now he sounded like his brother.

"Right. So I figured that if I wanted dinner out with you before you left, I should probably say something sooner rather than later."

Sam stammered a bit, fumbling for a response.

"Not a date!" Cady blurted. "Not that a date would be horrible...but you're a little young... I mean..." Cady stuttered to a stop and took a breath to start again. "I get that you won't be around for long. And I'm not looking for a marriage proposal or anything long term. Its just... Just once in a while, I want dinner conversation that does not involve livestock, the latest crime wave, or the casino. Durant doesn't have a lot of people and very few of them appreciate good food and good conversation. I figured, you know, what with you being a Stanford man..."

Sam finally relaxed. That was more like what he would expect from a nice girl like the lawyer. "I'd like that. As long as the conversation doesn't include rock music or car engines either."

Cady made plans to have Sam meet her at the restaurant that evening, then pointed him in the direction of the diner for Dean's lunch.

.o0o.

Dean was getting somewhere. Finally. There was a really good website for all things Vietnamese folklore and he'd finally found a decent translation app that could handle an entire web page. There was an entire chapter on the Tikbalang.

"Hey, Dean, can I ask you a question?" Ferg kept his voice pitched low, one eye warily on his fellow deputy.

The Hunter jerked his head, inviting the deputy to join him on the cell bench. Still skimming the lore, he asked, "What's on your mind? Need some good pick-up lines for that Bridgett girl?"

Ferg flushed red.

"Dude, chill," Dean counseled. "The hard parts are over; you got her attention and made a good enough impression that she called you back. You think she's fun; she thinks you're a nice guy. Now you two hang out and see if it goes anywhere."

"You make it sound so easy," Ferg sighed. "But I'm no good at this kind of thing."

"If love-lives were supposed to be easy, then that hot co-worker of yours would've had Walt in her bed by now; instead of trying to figure out how to tell him she's got a thing for the strong silent older man type."

Ferg coughed in shock. "Vic and Walt? Are you serious?"

Dean laughed. "Trust me, I've got a sexy times radar that's never wrong. Speaking of, make sure you buy the good condoms before the big day. Bridgett looks like a better-safe-than-sorry kinda girl, so don't cheap out on her. Trust me, broken condoms always ruin the afterglow."

Beet red in embarrassment, Ferg made his escape from the cell.

Sam passed him on the way back in. "What's with him?"

"Girl trouble," Dean stared at the to-go bag in Sam's hand. "This better not be tuna."

"Meatloaf and mashed potatoes." Sam sat one of the bags down. "Find anything?"

"Actually, yeah. Check it out."

Sam started reading over Dean's shoulder. "A horse-like monster that walks upright like a man, but with elongated hind legs like a grasshopper. Supposedly able to make itself invisible and mimic loved ones voices to lure its victims off the safe path to their death."

"According to the lore, a Tiki Bong had three golden hairs in its mane. If its victim can pull out any one of those hairs, it can't kill him anymore." Dean continued. "The only mention of how to kill it, says you have to jump on its back and ride it to exhaustion. No silver bullet or evergreen stake with this one."

"Naturally," Sam sighed. "Because that would be too easy."


	11. Chapter 11

Durant, Wyoming was not a big place. It was getting bigger, with the opening of the casino, but it was still not that big yet. A city that size only had so many eating establishments. The Red Pony had something resembling a menu, but Cady did _not_ want her godfather watching over them on their not-a-date. Sam had already had lunch from the Busy Bee Diner, so that was out. The casino had some fine dining areas, but Cady's mother had been so against the casino Cady refused to set foot in the place.

It was with some irony that they two potential friends ended up at the Winchester Steak House just off highway 16 and the interstate. Sam had to admire the Winchester rifles proudly displayed over the doorway just inside, but didn't comment. He doubted that a discussion on weaponry was exactly what his dinner companion had in mind. But for the life of him, he couldn't come up with a good opening topic. He'd never been good at the preliminaries. Way back in his colleges days, Jess had to chase him.

The silence was getting a little awkward when Sam's cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket enough to check who the call was from only to see a post-it note stuck to the screen in his brother's blocky handwriting: {1. Ask her why there's no pictures in the frames. 2. Her roommate's out of the house tonight, use protection.} Sam huffed a laugh. Classic Dean.

"Problem?" Cady inquired.

"My brother wants to know what's with the empty picture frames. I guess he's never heard of the Shabby-Chic art style."

"Wait, empty frames on the wall is an actual thing?" Cady gaped. "I just never found anything I liked for the frames and the bare walls were getting on my nerves."

Now Sam did laugh out loud. "I guess that Art Appreciation class really was a waste of time."

"Oh, God, you had to take that pointlessness, too?" Cady winced in memory of her college days. "I only bothered because-"

"-it was a liberal arts university and you had to be a 'well-rounded' student," Sam finished. "I was so glad I wasn't paying for the pleasure. I mean, you actually made it to lawyer; did you ever once use anything you learned from Art Appreciation?"

"No, never!" Cady snickered. "How about you? Ever appreciate fine art while 'lurking in the dark'?"

"Once actually," Sam admitted. "It was a job in an auction house."

"I don't know why universities think that everyone who wants a college degree would also want to 'expand their cultural horizons'" Cady made the little finger quotes in the air. "Like everyone with a degree in higher education needs to learn to like the so-called finer things in life. An entire semester of listening to opera made me wish I would go deaf to save me from the caterwauling. I am a Wyoming girl to the bone and like my country music even more after that torture."

"Well then, you did learn to appreciate music," Sam pointed out. "Just not the composers from the syllabus."

Just then, Cady's phone rang. "Dad? What's wrong?"

.o0o.

Dean ended the call before anyone could answer and stuffed his cell phone back in its pocket. His date radar told him that Sam's wasn't going well; but he expected that. The boy still took these things way too seriously and stressed himself out. Thankfully, Dean hadn't lost his touch with the reverse pick-pocketing. The post-it note would do its job, getting Sammy to relax enough to actually enjoy whatever nerd/lawyer discussion the two got going. Sometimes his brilliant little brother was so clueless.

Smiling to himself, Dean glanced through the window at the man he was guarding. Speaking of clueless. Even from outside (literally, as he was the outer patrol tonight) it was obvious Vic had a serious thing for Walt. As far as he could tell, Walt had a thing for Vic as well. Though admittedly Walt was harder to get a good read off. But neither of them were making a move. He might not be the expert on happy lasting relationships, but these two couldn't seem to find step one. Idly, he wondered what kind of post-it note would do the trick here.

He also wondered what the flip side to a cougar was. Usually a younger woman who went after an older man fell under the 'gold-digger' category. One look at Walt's cabin (best described as rustic) and one could tell that wasn't the case here. Maybe he could coin a new term or something...

Dean chuckled to himself. Sam and Cady with their conversation. Walt and Vic and their companionship. Hell, even Ferg and that Bridgett chick and a love of dancing. And Dean hadn't even gotten laid yet. What was the world coming to?

The soft rustle of branches snapped him away from his musings. He knew that pattern of rustle: a predator readying its feet to spring. But before he could get his gun clear, pain exploded across the back of his head. Dean's world went black.

 **A/N: Winchester Steak House is a real restaurant in Buffalo, WY near where author Craig Johnson lived.**


	12. Chapter 12

Vic had stayed the night at Walt's before. After the divorce and the eviction and other problems, he'd let her crash on his couch. So being here wasn't any more awkward this time. Actually, this time was better; she had a reason to be here and a job to do.

The two officers sat at Walt's kitchen table going over files and lists: everyone Walt could think of that would hold a grudge against the men from his old unit. He could name a handful of people who would hold a grudge against just him due to his career as an investigator with the JAG during the war. He still had a bullet scar from the U.S. Serviceman he caught murdering local prostitutes and dealing drugs on base. The list of people who hated his whole unit was significantly smaller. But Walt had no explanation for why whoever it was had waited until now. Surely they were all getting too old for this nonsense.

Not for the first time, Vic wished they had the resources to put together a list of men and women traveling to the U.S. from Vietnam since Maxwell was murdered over seas. But they simply did not have the resources for that kind of thing.

Suddenly, Walt's head snapped up from the file he was reading and he stared at the window. Dog came to his feet and growled deep, staring at the same window.

"What?" Vic demanded, hand going to her sidearm.

"You know the sound a body makes when it hits the ground?" Walt asked, picking up his favorite browning rifle. "Kind of a muffled thwamp."

"Yeah..."

"I think Dean is down."

"Shit!"

"Easy. Let's not tip our hand..." Walt's advice was cut off by a scream and a cry for help.

Dog started barking and snarling, but made no move to leave.

Vic swore heavily. "That's Cady's voice! Psychotic asshole has Cady!"

"Hmm." Walt grunted as he tore his gaze down to his pet; his heavier breathing the only sign of distress. "Cady is out on a date with Sam Winchester," the sheriff told his deputy. "If she didn't show up, Sam would've called. If someone had taken her from the restaurant, the sheriff's office would've gotten a 911 call."

"Wait, how do you know she's on a date?" Vic demanded, then flinched as the voice cried out in the dark again, louder and more desperate.

"She didn't swing by the office just to check on me. She kept looking at Sam." Walt explained as he rummaged around in his coat pockets. He was a professional investigator and a father; he noticed these things.

Vic was expecting him to come up with more ammo. But instead he pulled out the cellphone Dean had given him. He gave it a slightly betrayed look and a heavy sigh as he pushed the correct combination of buttons. Vic quirked her eyebrows in confusion and looked to see what was so wrong with his landline that he resorted to the hated cell. Then she realized that the handset was right by an open window; going for it would make them more of a target.

"Punk. You okay?"

" _Dad? What's wrong?_ " At his daughter's voice, Walt allowed himself a small sigh of relief.

"He's here. Call the Ferg and Henry, get them to my place. Tell Sam his brother's down." Walt ordered, then stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

The night fell silent again except for Dog's soft growling. Clearly, the guy realized that they weren't taking the bait. Walt and Vic stood on pins and needles waiting for what was coming next; neither of them willing leave the relative safety of the cabin and into the unknown.

Neither of them, in their wildest dreams, could have guessed what would come smashing through the front door. Vic got the barest glimpse of hooves, roan fur, and fangs before part of the exploding door smashed into her temple; she went down hard, blood leaking across her face and pooling on the hardwood floor beneath her.

"Vic!" Walt bellowed even as he pulled the browning's trigger. Slug after slug hammered home into the...whatever it was, but the monster barely took notice. It's horse face, full of fangs, snarled and its elongated hind legs coiled underneath it ready to spring in for the kill. Its arms looked human, except for being covered in horse hair and tipped with claws ready to tear into the man before it.

It stared Walt down. "You killed me," it said in Vietnamese overlayed with English, like a badly dubbed foreign movie. "You killed my mother, my family."

The browning was out and _It_ wouldn't give him the chance to reload, even though nothing the man could do would hurt _It_. Walt lifted his chin and slide his grip down the weapon, ready to use the rifle as a bludgeon and go out with his boots on.

Dog took his moment. While his owner had been shooting, the animal knew to stay out of the way. Now, 150 pounds of canine launched itself at _It_. Lightning fast, _It_ lashed out with those terrible claws, laying open Dog's side and throwing the animal across the room.

A flannel-wearing blur burst through the empty doorway using Dog's distraction to make his move. Dean Winchester threw himself onto the creature's back with his arms wrapped around its neck and his legs locked at the ankle around its waist.

The Tikbalang bellowed out a stallion's scream of challenge and began to buck wildly.

"Are you crazy?!" Walt hollered over the equine noise, diving for Vic and pulling her prone form away from the sharp, heavy hooves.

"Its the only way to kill it!" Dean hollered back from his mount, teeth snapping against each other as the monster leaped and thrashed. "Ride it down until it collapses!"

With no room for escape but through the bronco busting, Walt put himself bodily between the violence and the woman he loved. And watched as Dean fought to hold on for Walt's life.


	13. Chapter 13

Walt watched as Dean rode the monster. He had worked around horses his entire life; his father had been a farrier and Walt had done his share of breaking yearlings into saddle as a younger man growing up on a ranch. Watching Dean, Walt realized his war buddy's son had probably never been on a horse in his life. He rode the monster like he was wrestling a man. But this thing moved like a horse, twisting and bucking down its spine, with its arms on the ground like a horse's forelegs instead of human arms.

Not a lot of cowboys liked to try bronco busting bare-backed; a saddle and a bridle gave them a better chance at holding on. And as hard as Dean tried, muscle and determination were no replacement for a feel for the mount and experience. It took only minutes before heroic intentions were replaced by physics. (To be fair, most rodeo riders only needed to last a few minutes.)

"Son of a Bitch!" Dean bellowed even as he flew across the room and slammed through the living room wall.

Now it was Walt's turn. The old cowboy snatched up his heaviest belt and buckled it into a loop. When the monster came flying at him enraged and vengeful, he lunged forward to meet it belt buckle first. The monster bit down on the metal instead of flesh as Walt pivoted to the side. Smooth and easy, like mounting his own horse, Walt ended up on the monster's back with the belt over its head like a bit and bridle.

In a rodeo, a cowboy kept one hand on the saddle horn and one hand in the air. In real life, when you had a stallion that could maim your arm into uselessness, you did whatever you had to. Walt pulled the belt tight, refusing to give the beast its head and therefore limiting the twists and bucks. It was like not letting a human pull his arm all the way back before throwing a baseball; there wasn't as much power behind the movement. Then he locked his cowboy boots so that the pointed toes pressed just under the monster's ribs, keeping it from taking full, deep breaths.

Grimly, Walt held on as the beast beneath him went wild. He allowed only the smallest fraction of his concentration to waiver from the bronco busting of his life to notice that Dean had hauled himself back inside the house and had taken up position over Vic. Hopefully that meant she was still alive. Then Walt and the monster were outside, smashing through a window, and he focused on keeping his seat as his mount thundered away from the house and out into the open fields and the dark night's sky.

.o0o.

Dawn was beautiful, pinks and orange light across an endless sky washing away the last gloom of a miserable night.

Walt had no idea where he was or how long exactly he rode the monster. Honestly, he wasn't that worried. The world was not so big anymore that he couldn't find help with a day of walking.

No, he wasn't worried about himself. He worried about Vic. And not the way a sheriff worries about a deputy, but the way a man worries about the woman he cares for. Images of her still and quiet and bleeding haunted him. During the night, he had come to realize that Martha's ghost would be calling him a damned old fool for taking so long to realize how much he cared.

That didn't make things any easier, this realization. Vic was still young enough to be his daughter, which would cause problems on its own with the generation gap. That could be dealt with, he supposed. But Walt was still her boss. He was pretty sure that dating up or down the chain of command would generate problems, too. He might even have to check county by-laws on the subject. Ferg probably wouldn't mind, but Sheriff was a political office, so he would have to care what the county thought. Oh well, he'd figure something out.

Of course, all this mattered only if she was alive.

Walt turned his head to look at the carcass laying next to him. Part horse, part man, the monster was somehow less terrifying in the light of day. Or maybe that was simply because it no longer stood over him with murder on its mind. Either way, if Johnny Winchester had still been alive, Walt would have owed the man a serious apology.

Now that he had some light to see by, it was time to haul himself to his feet and pick a direction. Walt was bone-tired from the wild ride, but he would get no answers sitting alone in the wilderness. Before he could act on his decision, the rumble of an engine caught his ear. Walt knew that engine, so he stayed seated and let Henry Standing Bear and the Rez Dawg drive to him.


	14. Chapter 14

The Rez Dawg rolled slow enough that Henry could hop out of the driver's seat and stuff the stock blocks behind her tires to bring her to a stop.

Dean grumbled as he exited the passenger seat, "I don't care if your Rez Dawg handles the rough country better then my Baby, I am never riding in her again." From the bed of the truck, Sam snickered and hopped out.

Henry chuckled and patted his battered, multicolored pick-up. "When we get back into town, I will introduce you to Lola. She is a '69 Thunderbird and far too nice of a lady to drive through rough country as well." Turning to his oldest friend, he greeted, "Hello, Walt."

"Henry." Walt nodded at the brothers in greeting but didn't get up. "How'd we do?"

"Deputy Moretti has a moderate to severe concussion and is being held in the hospital for observation. Judging from the amount of swearing involved, she will be fine. Deputy Ferguson is with her and will call if anything changes. Dog is at the veterinarian's office, having received stitches for his wounds, and is expected to recover fully. Cady is with him." Henry reported.

"How's your head, Dean?" Walt turned to take in the elder Winchester.

"Not the first time a monster threw me through a wall," Dean shrugged.

"He's a walking mess of bruises and a mild concussion," Sam reported. "He'll be fine with a little bit of rest before we hit the road."

Walt nodded, accepting the news. "How'd you find me?"

Henry Standing Bear smirked. "The brothers Winchester activated the GPS on your new cellphone. It lead us right to you."

Walt blinked like he just remembered something important, and dug into his pocket. There, in his palm, sat the little electronic device. If he had remembered the thing, he wouldn't have had to walk anywhere. He could have called for help. "I still hate these things," Walt muttered.

But his friend was no longer listening to him. Henry, having delivered the news, turned his attention to the body behind Walt. "So. That is a monster."

"Hmmm," Walt grunted, not really sure what to make of the events of last night.

Dean offered "If anyone cares, its called a Tiki Bong-"

"Tikbalang," Sam corrected.

"-and just to be sure the thing stays all the way dead we should salt and burn the body." Dean continued as though his brother hadn't said a word.

"It could come back?" Henry demanded.

"Not likely, but better safe then sorry," Sam told them. "It's what we usually do."

"Why?" Walt asked.

"Salt and fire are purifying forces..." Sam began.

Walt shook his head, "Why Echo 2-1?" he clarified.

"Its the vengeful spirit of a Vietnamese killed in the war. By your unit," Dean explained. "Spirits take time to get pissed enough to take form. Best we can figure, Maxwell took a trip with his wife and walked down the same path where this guy died, giving it the last little push to turn into that," he gestured at the man-horse. "Then it came after everyone else." None of the three men added the the dead man had actually been an unborn child. Henry knew, and the Winchesters guessed, that Walt wouldn't take the news well.

"If it had killed me, would it have stopped?" Walt had to ask. Old guilts and survivor's guilt were stirring up in his mind, making him wonder if this should have ended differently.

"Probably not," Sam answered. "Most spirits keep going until they are stopped or contained. After Echo 2-1, maybe it would have gone after any Vietnam vet or even after any American soldier."

"This thing doesn't deserve vengeance, Walt. This thing, this guy, deserves rest. He's been pissed off for a long time. A salt and burn will give him that, let him move on." Dean held Walt's gaze until the older man understood and agreed.

The Winchesters came prepared with a canister of gasoline and a five pound bag of road salt. The four men stayed by the bonfire to make sure it didn't burn out of control.

"So." Walt grunted, not taking his eyes off the flames. "This is what you do."

"Yep," Dean agreed.

Walt let his brain process for a few minutes listening to the crackling fire. The other men kept quiet and let him. "What killed Johnny?"

"Not a heart attack," Sam answered, his voice low and soft.

Suddenly, in the midst of gloom and introspection, Dean chuckled. "Dad let you get away with calling him Johnny?"

Walt huffed a laugh of his own. "At nineteen, we were both bigger than him."


	15. Chapter 15

Walt Longmire made his way into the Red Pony and eased himself down into the chair. Bronco busting, even when you are successful, always leaves the cowboy feeling it the next day. Walt felt like a giant walking bruise and everything was stiff, even two days later. He hated being old sometimes. Next to him, Dog limped his way along beside his master. He was recovered enough that he wanted out of the house, but once Walt settled in his chair Dog gladly lowered himself to the floor to rest.

Henry Standing Bear watched his friend move across the bar and knew better than to offer any kind of support. It would just get him growled at, and not by Dog. Instead, the old Indian handed off the bar to the other bartender and sat at the same table.

"Where are Johnny's boys? I thought they were supposed to meet us here before leaving town." Walt looked around, trying to decide if he missed seeing them when he came in.

"They are supposed to," Henry agreed, tapping a manila envelope. "I promised to copy several photos of their father."

Below them, Dog lifted his head to stare at the door. Walt could've sworn the animal had an expression of confusion on its face as he looked from the door, to Henry, and back to the door. After a minute, both men finally heard what the dog already had.

"Is that my truck?" Henry demanded, abandoning the table and making a beeline for the door.

Walt followed a lot slower.

Dog considered the matter, gave a canine shrug, and lay his head back down.

Outside the Rez Dawg rumbled to a stop. And yes, this time it actually _stopped_ , under its own power and everything. Dean Winchester hopped down from the cab with a grin.

Annoyed, Henry growled, "I thought you said you would never ride in my truck again."

"I didn't. I _drove_ your truck," Dean smirked. "After I replaced the brake lines, pads, shoes and rotors. Not to mention the work I did making sure the exhaust actually goes through the muffler and out the exhaust pipe instead of leaking into the cab. Speaking of leaks, did you know that your gas lines were leaking? Yep, dripping all over your exhaust manifold. Which, by the way, was over-heating due to the old, bad water pump. You know what happens when gas drips on an over-heating exhaust manifold, right?"

"It has been known to cause fires," Henry admitted grudgingly.

"Yep," Dean agreed. "That thing was a rolling death trap. And you knew it."

Walt cocked his head. "Was."

"Yep, _was,"_ Dean looked pretty smug about the past tense of that statement. "Don't worry, Henry, I fixed just enough to make it safe. The body work and options are still crap."

"Even discounting labor costs, those repairs could not have been cheap," Henry noted suspiciously. His pride would not let him accept charity, even between friends. He had almost choked on the outpouring of concern during his house arrest and pre-trial; desperation had made acceptance a necessity. This was not a necessity. If anything, Henry owed the Winchesters for saving his friend.

Dean waved away the concern. "I hit up the Four Arrows the other day; did pretty good. So good, in fact, that Nighthorse guy gave me a liquor voucher hoping I'd get drunk enough to start loosing. Ppfft. Like I don't know better. They pull the same crap every year in Vegas, too. Won enough for the Rez Dawg and set me and Sammy up for a month."

"Jacob Nighthorse's casino paid for my truck repairs," Henry mused, a small smile playing on his lips. "Okay, I believe I can live with that. Buy why?"

"Because that truck is an offense to mechanics everywhere," Dean declared passionately.

Walt chuckled at Henry's expense. He'd always hated riding in that monstrosity, too. Then he dug into a pocket and offered something to Dean. "Here. Wouldn't want to forget this."

Dean considered the small flip phone resting in the sheriff's hand. "Nah, you keep it. It might come in handy again sometime."

Henry tried to hold in the snicker. A little. At long last, Walt Longmire owned a cell phone.

Walt huffed. "I still say they're not worth it. Sometimes, a man needs to be left alone."

"That, my friend, is what the power button is for," Dean told him. "You can always turn the damn thing off when you need to. It'll take a message."

Thoughtful, Walt put his phone away.

Henry sighed. He knew how this would turn out: Ruby endlessly calling around to track him down until _Walt_ suddenly wants something. Then he'll remember that he has a cell. All this was going to do is make his old friend even more demanding without the delay of him finding a land line.

.o0o.

Soon after, Sam finally arrived from the motel in the Impala and everyone said their goodbyes. If Walt or Henry noticed that Sam's hair was slightly matted from sweat and there was hints of light lipstick smeared on his neck, neither said a word. How the young man spent his time in a motel room while his roommate was out tinkering with a mechanic's project was not their business.

Even if both men rather missed the energy of youth and afternoon sex.

They waved at the back of the vanishing classic muscle car as two arms waved final farewells from its windows.

It wasn't until Cady came to stand beside them with a contented smile on her face that Walt and Henry suddenly decided it was very much their business. Both men definitely noticed that her lipstick was a light, natural shade and her checks were slightly flushed; like she had been doing something... aerobic... recently. They also noticed that her blouse was on inside out.

"Son of a...!" Walt bit off the last word.

"Winchester," Henry growled.

The End.


End file.
